Hope for a Broken World
by VanillaJ1967
Summary: He held on to the world he'd fought to save once. Was there no hope left in it? Surely, there must have been. If there was no hope, the world would already have been undone by its Maker. So, each day, he struggled to live through another-to breathe long enough to survive to the next day.


Wind howled outside the dark, cold room. Tired eyes stared through the darkness. Frost on stone walls bit into exposed flesh. A tired mind wondered; how long before he died? How long could he last like this? He was no longer very much alive, so much as "lasting" through nights and days that dragged on.

He told himself that perhaps he would make it out alive, because of old letters, faded in the pages of an ancient book. So he slept at night... dreamlessly, wishing that everything would be right when he woke. Pages and verse sang to him about the end of the world, and he prayed it would come soon. It would be the end of the torture and pain...

But still, he held on to the world he'd fought to save once. The world he would have died to save... was there no hope left in it? Surely, there must have been. If there was no hope, the world would already have been undone by its Maker.

So, each day, he struggled to live through another-to breathe long enough to survive to the next day, in which it all started again, and he breathed through the pain, simply moving from one to the next. He was isolated. Friends and acquaintance alike gone; lost to a memory that was now filled with tortured thoughts of a life better ended than lived.

Even through it all, he dared not ask why, nor brought a complaint against the Creator. There was a purpose for everything; and a time for it all. His life was still in him because his God had willed it to be. Until the day he died, it would always be so.

But, on days like this, life was pain. He watched someone he'd once loved curse his name with hate like he'd never seen. Everyday, he watched one he loved drew closer to Hell, and it killed him... more than the physical pain. It hurt worse than any wound. It burned like flames against flesh. It stung more than frost. It bled like a vein... it hurt.

The voice he heard when his brother spoke was like that of someone dead, pretending that he still lived. He took everything and came up empty handed. He was blind, but still he stumbled through life acting as though he controlled his fate. Ryden didn't know who he was anymore. It was like... Ryden wasn't real; his brother, wasn't real.

Cade had chances... several of them. He'd had chances to end his own pain. Moments when Ryden just... stopped; almost as though frozen in time. At times, it seemed like Ryden actually gave him opportunities to kill him, as though he wanted it. But Cade would never... not for anything. He would suffer a thousand years and never would that change. Because while his suffering and death would mean heaven, Ryden's death would mean he was damned to Hell forever, and the thought like poison to his soul.

Tired eyes blurred with unshed tears. It never ended. All he could do was pray, beg, and plead for his brother's dying soul... and everyday he woke without answer. Surely his prayers were heard, but how they were to be answered... he had no idea. His heart cried out with his soul, not asking for the suffering to end, but asking that his brother's suffering would never begin.

Sometimes... he felt like he was alive, but losing drive and will. Maybe he was to blame for his brother's blindness, or perhaps they both were-but either way, he couldn't breathe. Everything they'd been through as children, and everything about Ryden seemed to be a lie-a guiltless twisted lie... and he hated that he'd let it all pass by without doing something different. Instead, he'd let his brother drift away, and all he'd said was goodbye thinking that maybe they would be better off that way...

He wondered, if he'd loved his family and his people so much, why had his family fallen apart, and his people all been murdered? Was it his fault? Did he tear apart his family-and in so doing, kill his people as well? Was that his doing? Ryden certainly seemed to think so. He knew, no matter what, God had it all planned out…

Still, his soul fought. A hundred years he'd lived hearing that this was all his fault, and his pain was brought on him by only his actions. And at times, it seemed true-he second guessed all he'd done, and it all it brought was more pain. Nothing he said or did ever made it end-his comfort was his God; he had nothing else.

Was he not good enough for his brother? Had he done something so wrong in Ryden's eyes that he was unworthy of even the smallest kindness? Had he done something? Was he the cause of all that was wrong, as Ryden so often said...

Still, none of that mattered in the eyes of the One who made him. Eyes of Light he saw in his dreams... Eyes so bright and full of beautiful life. All he ever saw in those eyes was Love. And it kept him alive-because if the Maker of the universe could see him blameless-could love him for all his faults-he could survive another day.

If God would give him just enough strength to make it through-just enough, not more-then he would be thankful enough. He knew-in a way, he always had-that he couldn't live without the Creator. The will to live was nothing without the One who made life. So, the fight within him was silenced to peace yet again, prepared for the coming day... Light had won again. Love reigned in an unbroken heart. Still he hoped, believed, and he forgave.

So, when the door opened, he was waiting, calm. He didn't beg for a mercy he knew would not be granted, only forgave and whispered words of kindness to one who seemed unable to hear them-because someday, maybe he would...

2


End file.
